


a woman is like a tea bag

by mystarsandmyocean



Category: The Prom - Sklar/Beguelin/Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Discussion of Anti-Muggle Sentiment, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Shameless Eleanor Roosevelt references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystarsandmyocean/pseuds/mystarsandmyocean
Summary: five times Emma and Alyssa choose between what is easy and what is right.a hogwarts AU
Relationships: Alyssa Greene/Emma Nolan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	a woman is like a tea bag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mierke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mierke/gifts).



> I went back and forth long and hard re: including Muggle anti-LGBTQ sentiments! But in light of the newest JK Rowling news, I decided the world of Harry Potter didn’t deserve her bigotry. I hope you approve of my decision to keep it in-canon only, while still holding true to the message and themes of _The Prom_.
> 
> Happy, happy holidays, Mierke! May your Yuletide be festive and bright.

  
“ _A woman is like a tea bag—you can't tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water._ ”

—Often attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt 

  
**_  
i. like we’ve discussed_ **

The scritch of quill on parchment distracts Alyssa from her essay on important contributions from non-wand-bearing communities long enough for her to realize another important change has occurred—at her usual study table. 

A pretty brunette Hufflepuff now sits in the seat diagonally across, her petal pink lips a moue of concentration. Alyssa sorts through her mental Chocolate Frogs deck— _you never know who you’ll meet out in the wizarding world_ , her mother scolds—and flushes. 

Emma Nolan, only daughter of the House of Nolan. First witch in her family in generations to wear loyal yellow rather than ambitious green. The yellow scarf does, however, look rather striking against Emma’s honey-gold hair. 

Panic grips Alyssa as she debates between making an overture or snubbing her schoolmate— _you are_ not _like those people_ , her mom screeches helpfully, when all she wants to ask is what people? _Whose_ people?—when Emma makes the decision for her. 

“Excuse me?” Emma probs. “Do you have extra ink I could borrow? For Professor Glickman’s essay? I’m finally in the writing groove and don’t want to lose it.”

Alyssa silently pushes over her bottle of ink, mouth stuck in a half-grimace, half-smile. Her mother may as well have cast a _Silencio_ , with her hold on Alyssa’s every thought. Should she say hi? What would her mother say?

Emma nods and thanks her, attention clearly returning to her paper and not the weirdly haughty Gryffindor girl she should be labeling Alyssa as. 

It’s official. She’s the _worst_. 

  
**_  
ii. what I want is simple_ **

Emma’s parents last until her fifth year before they officially renounce her as a blood traitor—her sorting into Hufflepuff was the first sin; her friendships—and _worse_ —with Muggleborns, the second; her intent to focus on Muggle Studies is now the third. 

As they say in that odd Muggle sport—bass ball? Break ball? Certainly not Bludger Ball?—three strikes, and you’re out. Emma’s pen pal from Salem, a sweet witch with a talent for hexes, taught her that one. 

It’s not until Hannah Abbot’s fussing over her in the Leaky Cauldron that reality begins to set in—she has no home, no family, _nothing_. She’s on the verge of owling Headmaster Hawkins in sheer desperation when a great-aunt twice-removed, long since _incendio-_ d from the family tree herself, bustles in to the tavern. Before the cinders have fully cooled in her former spot on the House of Nolan tapestry, the older woman has ushered Emma onto the Knight Bus and is demanding to be called Granny. 

It’s not until there sitting with a cup of tea and Gobstones that Emma asks how her great-aunt even knew to come find her. 

“It was quite odd,” Granny—and oh boy, that will take getting used to, after years of Grandmother-only relations—says. “I received an owl with the information shortly after you’d arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, I suppose. I didn’t recognize the pet, but a friend of mine did—belongs to one of the widows in that Remember Our Heroes organization. Always sending owls with one fundraiser or another, and we’re happy to help of course. 

“Teal something or other . . . ” Granny continues, and Emma is sure they’ve moved in to a new topic—knitting? “Or was it Blue? No, Green! The family is the Green family. Shame they’re not Slytherins, eh?”

Emma doesn’t respond. Alyssa Greene is the only Greene she knows, but . . . _Oh_. Emma does remember seeing a flash of dark, gleaming hair that afternoon, a forgotten glimpse of a familiar face between her overwrought arrival at the Tavern. 

Warmth fills Emma’s heart. _Oh_ indeed.

**_iii. so true happened_ **

When Emma slides into the seat besides her in Muggle Studies, fireworks go off in Alyssa’s chest. There’s no other word for the electricity that crackles between them or the way Emma’s shy, soft smile sends heat right down to her toes.

Her mother doesn’t talk about her father much, but she’s described her feelings enough that Alyssa thinks this might be love. Why else does her mother’s idolization of her father echo in her head, each time Emma moves or speaks or simple just _is_?

_Your father was so wonderfully smart—just like you, Alyssa_. 

Emma knows her own mind in a way Alyssa envies. Her opinions are confident, well-spoken, unwavering. Even when other students mock her Slytherin relatives and jeer that she’s a “Mudblood hater,” her values never waver. She knows who she is, and will not apologize for it. 

_You deserve the world, Alyssa—it’s what your father deserved._

Alyssa knows Emma deserves the world—and far more than what Alyssa can ever offer. She deserves the words brave enough to challenge their fellow students, and to shield her from their harm. But for now . . . 

Before Emma can leave class, one Tuesday in October, Alyssa clasps her hand and waits for their classmates to leave. 

“Emma?” Alyssa, for now, digs out her bravest words. “Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me?”

**_iv. someone in-between_ **

“I can’t do this anymore.” 

The look on Alyssa’s face breaks Emma’s heart, but her heart has been breaking this whole awful year. It’s all piled up: every jeer from the kids she grew up with, now cold-blooded Slytherins out to make their parents proud; every mocking classmate who thinks they’re the first to ask— _Hey Emma, could we exchange you for a Muggle, you think?_

She’s not pure enough or good enough, and it’s the worst of both worlds. 

“Emma?” Alyssa asks, her voice skittering in the dark, “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong is Alyssa’s mom has worked all year to demote Emma from Prefect, all to preserve Alyssa’s Head Girl spot—which Emma doesn’t even want—and now she can’t go to the Battle of Hogwarts celebrations because she may pose _a danger_ to Muggleborns. 

Because of her parents. Because she is different. Because the world does not slot into easy identifiers for _good_ and _evil._

(Most days, she can focus on her mother’s homemade cookies, and afternoons of chess with her father, not their cold, cold faces as they told her she no longer had a home. 

Good and evil is not red or green or yellow or blue.)

All she wanted was to celebrate finishing exams with her girlfriend. To kiss her in sunlight instead of moonlit halls. Instead, they’ve grown further and further apart, caught between Alyssa’s mother’s inhibition and just waiting for _this_ to blow over. But Emma doesn’t think it will. Not anymore. 

When she doesn’t respond, Alyssa—brave and beautiful and bold—breaks the silence. “Are you . . . Are you breaking up with me?” 

“I . . . guess so.” Emma nods as Alyssa hiccups. 

_Oh god._ They were breaking up. For real. 

“I have to go. Okay. Bye.”

Fleeing the secluded hallway, Emma has never felt more cowardly in her life. 

**_v. who your unruly heart loves_ **

“I’m sorry,” they both declare, nearly in sync. Alyssa hovers in the shadows of the courtyard, until Emma tugs her forward, twining their hands together.

“That was so brave of you,” Alyssa continues, tightening her grip and grateful, so grateful, to be holding Emma’s hand again. Her skin is warm, and not quite soft, like the pages of a well-read book. They stare at each other, uncertain, rosiness rising in their cheeks before Emma steps closer—

“Well. That was. Brave of you too, you know.” Emma’s still moving closer, so her words don’t quite register until their millimeters apart, close enough to see the hazel flecks in Emma’s bottle-green eyes. Her glasses, as always, are in need of cleaning, Alyssa thinks fondly. 

“You made me brave,” Alyssa whispers, before pressing her lips against Emma’s, sinking into her with a moan. There’s whispered words, and sighs, and Emma’s tongue flicking against hers, each boldly sweeping in their efforts to consume one another. 

For once, her mother’s voice _doesn’t_ reprimand her once they pull away, gasping and flushing, pupils blown wide with desire. Maybe the speechlessness works on internal voices too? 

“Alyssa?” Emma asks, petal pink lips unfurling into a smile. “Want to dance?”


End file.
